


Scars

by starblessed



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017), The Greatest Showman (Movies)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Non-Explicit Nudity, Scars, anne is gorgeous and phillip is in awe, gets a little sexy but nothing explicit, phillip’s not too bad himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: They both have scars etched into their skin, shames and secrets hidden in the shadows. In quiet moments, they bare themselves for each other.(Or, old scars vs new —  Anne and Phillip, where they’ve both been.)





	Scars

She keeps her eyes closed as he runs his hands over her waist. The skin under his palms is soft satin, an invisible dress wrapped around her bare figure.

It makes Phillip all the more conscious of himself. His own hands are ink-stained and calloused. Stubble lines his cheeks, while her face is smooth. His breathing is rough and uneven. He is even clothed next to her — a shirt offers him modesty, while Anne seems unabashed of her own nakedness.

He knows he can never hope to be beautiful like her. He is not as gentle, not as graceful, not as strong.

His hands move down her thighs and she inhales, a tiny gasp of breath. It does not break the spell. If anything, Phillip falls deeper.

“If there’s anywhere you don’t want me to touch,” he says, voice soft in the silence, “anywhere I shouldn’t look, just tell me.”

“It’s alright,” Anne whispers. Candlelight dances off of her face, highlighting her cheekbones and brow. She looks peaceful, almost as if she’s sleeping. Were it not for the rapid drumbeat Phillip can hear this close to her chest, he would think she wasn’t fazed at all. (He’s glad for it, because his own heart is thrumming like a steam engine, and he feels certain he’d lose himself if she dared open her eyes.)

One of her hands dip down, landing over his own. He can feel her nails run along his knuckles. No longer is he the one in control. She guides him along, down her leg and then up again, showing him what he is allowed to touch and how. Her thigh is firm; her calves powerful; the arch of her foot seems made for a golden slipper.

As he travels up again, up her waist and torso, he rises as well. They are nose to nose when she finally opens her eyes, and he feels his breath catch in his throat. She burns, with a fire deep inside her skin, smouldering in her bones. There is no way for him not to be entranced by her, when she looks at him with those dark eyes. They are so close that if he moves an inch, he knows their lips will touch.

“Keep going,” Anne breathes.

His hands continue to travel up her back, her ribs, caressing smooth skin — and then he stops. Something unusual is caught beneath his fingertips. This part of the skin feels serrated, uneven. His fingers trace the long outline, blind to what they are touching.

Anne continues to stare at him with those dark ember eyes. Her gaze is sharper now, a look he’s come to recognize. She is _waiting_ for him. She wants to see what he’ll do, how he’ll react.

There is a challenge in the purse of her lips. Phillip answers it with a heated kiss. He pulls Anne to him, hand still pressed to the scar on her back, and feels her push back against him. Her hands find his shoulders; lips burn against his own.

When they part, their gasps of breath become entangled with each other. He keeps her close. Her own grip on his shoulders is possessive.

“What happened?” he asks, tracing his fingers over her scar.

Anne is hushed when she replies, though maybe she’s just breathless. “I was ten. W.D. and I were practicing flips in the park, and I landed wrong. Piece of a broken bottle went right into me.”

Phillip ducks his head in sympathy, pressing his brow to Anne’s own. His stubble tickles her face. She laughs softly.

“What about…” He hums the words against her lips, hand venturing to something he first noticed a while ago. “This one?”

One of Anne’s hands drifts away from Phillip’s shoulder, up to her hairline, self conscious. Her bright wig conceals the jagged, fingernail-length scar, and when her hair is down and natural it remains hidden. Phillip has tucked that hair back, however. He’s run his fingers through it, combed it, kissed it. He noticed the scar just behind her ear.

“Believe it or not, hanging clothes. Me and my mamma.” Anne smiles sheepishly, like a decades-old injury is something to feel embarrassed over. “The wire caught me when I turned my head.”

“And let me guess…” Phillip pulls her hand away, holding her wrist up to the light. His fingers trace the outline of a few long-faded marks, barely visible. They form the shape of a jaw. “A dog?”

“A stray one,” confesses Anne. “Me and W.D. used to tease him all the time. We were _awful_. One day, he bit back.”

Phillip raises the wrist to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each faded mark. His lips caress Anne’s slender wristbones. She sighs, leaning into him, and loops her free arm around his neck.

“And you,” she says. She doesn’t really have to ask.

Anne’s childhood is something indefinite to Phillip, as much an enigma as parts of Anne herself. She keeps things locked deep inside her, sealed in a box and guarded with a key that belongs to her alone. She has lived things he cannot understand, been places he’ll never see. Her past is not his to own. These scars are like little puzzle pieces that reveal glimpses into Anne’s history. They are something secret, sacred.

Phillip is less of a mystery.

Anne’s hands deftly undo the buttons on his shirt, shrugging it down over his shoulders. Once he stands bared in front of her, she takes a step back. Her eyes seem torn between focusing on his face or lower. He doesn’t blame her; he knows it’s hard to look at.

Once his chest was smooth as Anne’s face, but running through a wall of fire changes a man in more ways than one. The skin now is mottled and ugly, white in some places, purple in others. Old burns line his abdomen, his ribcage, decorating his collar like kiss marks. Anne has seen them countless times. She has traced her fingers over them, pressing her hands to the planes of his chest, and studied the ruined skin. The first time, her tears landed against his skin, burning almost worse than the fire. The second time it was her lips that burned, caressing them in a way that proved she was not horrified by him.

Phillip gave up his skin for her. He would give up _anything_ for Anne.

Now, her fingers run along the planes of his chest, gentle and pensive. Her eyes are hooded as they take in the abused tissue. The scars are no longer so sensitive, but Anne’s touch still makes Phillip shiver and gasp.

Anne cups his face with one hand, a long “shhhhh” dragging from her lips. When she looks up again, her gaze meets Phillip’s, glowing with warmth. “You’re still beautiful,” she tells him. “You’re always beautiful, baby.”

Phillip points out the obvious. “Not like you.”

“No,” agrees Anne, smiling (she’s more pleased than she wants to let on). “Not like me.”

When she kisses him again, Phillip hums into her mouth. Something about Anne’s kisses never cease to be fierce, hungry and determined in a way that is just like her. He is more tentative, overconfident until the moment is his; then he does not mind letting her take the lead.

For a long moment, there is nothing between them but lips. Anne moves against him, a hand in his hair, her teeth nipping at him, fingernails dragging along his scalp. He feels her hand working at the button of his pants. They fall to the ground at his feet, and he steps deftly out of them.

When Anne drops abruptly down, it’s like she has been ripped away from him. Phillip blinks, stunned. By the time he regains his bearings, Anne is in a neat crouch, her hands caressing his calf.

“This one,” she says, tracing the twisted scar that marrs his pale flesh. “You never told me this one.”

“I liked to play with knives,” he tells her, breathless. Her nails dance along his calf like a spider. (He’s always hated spiders, but Anne’s touch sends chills up his spine for a different reason.) “I wasn’t a smart child.”

Anne humms. She moves up, up to his hipbone, and Phillip already knows what’s there. “This one?”

“A gentleman at a play of mine felt he was entitled to a refund, and made his feelings… very clear.” He still remembers the feeling of the drunk’s knife slicing through his flesh as he stepped in to break up the argument. It makes him shudder; but the press of Anne’s lips drains the hurt away.

When she rises back up to him, there’s a light in her eyes that is almost teasing. “Sounds like we’ve both got our stories.”

“We certainly do,” Phillip admits. Anne’s hand is still on his hip. He finds her waist once more, pulling her close. “But I prefer to live in the present.”

A smile stretches across Anne’s lips as she twines her arm around Phillip’s neck. “What do you say we make some scars of our own, Mr. Carlyle?” she whispers. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how I’ve fallen into hell for this movie, but I’m going in hard.
> 
> My tumblr is [abroholoselephanta](http://abroholoselephanta.tumblr.com/) and tbh I’m thirsty for prompts for this movie.


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